


Hope is the thing with feathers–

by LiraelClayr007



Series: SPNStayAtHome [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (this time i spilled fluff in my angst), Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Angst, Fluff, M/M, feathers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: There’s a twinge in the middle of Cas’s back, phantom pain from the wings that once were and never will be again. A crow cuts through the bit of sky he can see, blue-black wings spread wide. He thinks of the pillowcase full of feathers he’s got stuffed under the bed, so like and yet unlike those of the crow. He doesn’t know why he holds onto them. They’re only collecting dust and reminding him of a past so full of bitterness and regret he fills his now-human body with poisons so he can almost forget.In which Cas is missing his wings and mourning what could have been, and yet somehow finds hope.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: SPNStayAtHome [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698652
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	Hope is the thing with feathers–

Cas doesn’t bother looking up when the door to his cabin creeks open, or even when it slams shut. He knows the cadence of those steps, the pounding of those worn-down boot heels. The view through the sliver of window is nice, even though it’s upside-down and sideways, and he doesn’t want to look away. The autumn leaves are red and gold; he likes the birch trees best, with their stark white bark against their bright yellow leaves. There’s a particularly lovely birch a few paces from his cabin. A few days after he lost his last feather he carved his name into its bark; CAS in stark black letters on the paperwhite bark. He’d felt the need to leave his mark somewhere, somehow. The birch seemed as good a place as any.

“Hello Dean,” he says, still watching the wind whisper through the treetops.

“Hey Cas.”

Dean’s voice is a worn out blanket. Cas keeps his eyes on the leaves, unwilling to take in the whole of Dean’s brokenness. His own is hard enough to bear.

There’s a twinge in the middle of Cas’s back, phantom pain from the wings that once were and never will be again. A crow cuts through the bit of sky he can see, blue-black wings spread wide. He thinks of the pillowcase full of feathers he’s got stuffed under the bed, so like and yet unlike those of the crow. He doesn’t know why he holds onto them. They’re only collecting dust and reminding him of a past so full of bitterness and regret he fills his now-human body with poisons so he can almost forget.

But at the moment his blood, his mind, is clear, free of the drugs that so often pull him into soothing numbness.

“Dean,” he says, and Dean must hear something in his voice, because Cas can almost feel Dean’s attention shift, feel the focus of Dean’s gaze on the top of his head. Dean doesn’t speak, but Cas knows he’s waiting as clearly as if he’d said ‘speak, for your servant is listening.’

He tries again. “Dean, I–” but his voice breaks. He clenches his hands into fists, feels his fingernails puncture the skin of his palms. He wants to speak, wants to say the words. This would be so much easier if he was high.

But when he’s high he doesn’t care enough to try.

After a few slow breaths he says, “I’m sorry I’m not better. For you.”

It’s not exactly what he means.

It’s not _close_ to what he means.

He wants to apologize for not being able to save Sam, for losing his grace, for letting Dean down again and again. He wants to make him understand that he knows Dean could never love him, but that he’s thankful for everything Dean’s willing to give–every spoken word. Every wayward glance. Every brush of his hand against Cas’s. Every night spent frantically searching for pleasure that can never truly be found.

He knows he can never be Dean’s everything. He wants Dean to know he’s okay with being his something.

Dean doesn’t speak; if Cas didn’t know the squeak of the door he’d wonder if Dean had up and left rather than talk with him.

But no, Dean is still at the table, the outdoor symphony falls into a temporary lull, just for a moment, and Cas can hear Dean’s ragged breath. Harsh, in and out, like maybe he’s–

“Dean?”

Cas turns and looks this time; it always hurts his eyes to look at Dean, to see the man he’d stitched back together so haggard and worn, but that sound in his breath demands his eyes.

And Dean’s eyes–wet with unshed tears–are looking back.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice is rough, whiskey and gravel. It goes straight to Cas’s center, sends sparks up his spine. “Cas, you’ve given everything for me. This–what we have–it isn’t perfect.” He laughs, but it’s almost a mockery of a laugh. “No, forget that. The world sucks right now, and I hate 99% of it. But you keep me steady, Cas. I wish we could have a normal ‘hey let’s go out and have a drink and go dancing’ kind of thing, but that went out with burger joints and movie theatres. I should–Cas, _I’m_ the one who should be better. I should stay the night–all night–and kiss you good morning.” Something in Cas’s chest flutters. Is that his heart?

“Fuck, Cas, you _defied god_ for me. You used every scrap of your grace to protect me, to keep us all safe, and when it was gone you still flung yourself into danger without a second thought.”

Had he done that? He remembered disobeying the angels, but had that been defying his Father? Perhaps it had.

But thinking about his grace still stings. The pain in his back flares again.

Dean gets up, crouches down in front of Cas. “I’m sorry about your wings, Cas. I know they still hurt you sometimes. Come on, let me help.” Dean pulls him up, pulls him towards the bed.

This whole conversation has been so confusing, but this is familiar ground. Good. He doesn’t like losing his footing, especially around Dean.

But then he’s confused again. Dean pulls off Cas's shirt then pushes him onto the bed, onto his stomach, the rough blanket pressing into the skin of his chest and his cheek.. “Just relax,” Dean says. And then he’s straddling him, massaging Cas’s back, paying special attention to the place between his shoulder blades, the place that hurts every time he thinks of his wings.

It’s bliss. Cas suddenly has to bite back a sob; he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out at least one overwhelming stimulus. And then Dean stops, and Cas wants to cry out in a different way. But Dean’s just slipping something into Cas’s hand before he goes back to his work of taking Cas apart. “Here,” he says. “This might help.”

Cas knows instantly what it is. One of his feathers. But not from the bag under his bed; those are bent, broken, burnt–the feathers of a fallen angel. This feather is perfect. Strong. And undeniably his.

“Dean, this is–”

“Yeah,” he says. He sounds almost embarrassed. Cas wishes he was on his back instead of his stomach so he could see the blush he knows is creeping across those freckled cheeks.

“You told us you were an angel, and even with those flashy wings I didn’t buy it.” He chuckles. “You know what I was like back then. No god, no angels, I wasn’t having any of it. But a few days later I went back to that barn. I’d already seen you again by then, was already starting to believe, but I needed…” Dean’s hands on his back stop, and Cas can feel him thinking. Searching. “I don’t know what I was looking for. But I hoped there would be something. And there was.”

He stops again, and this time he climbs off Cas’s legs to sit on the floor next to the bed, eye to eye with the fallen angel. “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid, but…” He runs a hand through Cas’s hair, and for a moment Cas wonders if his hair still feels like feathers. He used to think it did. Then his attention snaps back to Dean. “When I picked this up I could _feel_ something. A flash. A...a _power_. Later I figured out it was your grace.”

“Yes,” Cas says, his voice raw. “It’s still there. Just a drop, but it’s still strong.”

After a beat, Dean says, “I know. I can still feel it too.”

Something in Cas’s stomach flips. They’ve been connected since the beginning, since he first gathered Dean’s broken pieces and wove them back together. Since Dean’s soul, bright and clean despite its dank surroundings, shimmered in Cas’s hands. Since he’d left his mark on Dean for all to see.

"But–in me–there's no more spark."

“No more spark,” Dean agrees, and Cas closes his eyes.

He’d known, oh, he’d known, but it hurts to hear it so plain. It’s one thing to _feel_ broken, to _feel_ so less than whole, but it’s another to _know_ Dean sees him that way. But then Dean laughs, and Cas is startled into looking back at him. The intensity in Dean’s eyes ignites something like hope deep inside Cas.

“When I touch you now, it’s a fucking fire.”

**Author's Note:**

> For SPNStayAtHome #1 - Feather
> 
> –Many thanks to Emily Dickinson for the title!–


End file.
